


That Old Familiar Body Ache

by Greenie (hidetheteaspoons)



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternative Scene, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, F/M, POV First Person, Post-Break Up, Robin's perspective, Starting Over, self-realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 09:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30053682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidetheteaspoons/pseuds/Greenie
Summary: Sometimes walking out is the one thing, that will find you the right thing...
Relationships: Matthew Cunliffe/Robin Ellacott, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	That Old Familiar Body Ache

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this piece is not my usual style, but I'm enjoying writing from a different perspective. This fic plays out in my head every time I hear the song, "It's Time to Go" by Taylor Swift (If you know me at all, you know I'm a total TS junkie!), and is an alternative to Robin meeting with Raff in LW. I don't write angst very often, but I hope I've done Robin just a little bit of justice.

_That old familiar body ache_

_The snaps from the same little breaks in your soul_

_You know when it's time to go._

The evening was cold and it was raining as I stepped out into the dark. I didn’t dare look behind me, because I knew my resolve would crumble. I’d fall back into the same familiar routine of someone pretending to love me, only to crush me over and over, chipping away at pieces of my heart. The destruction of _me._ The thing you love shouldn’t hurt you. When the thing you love, or think you love, hurts you, you need to leave it behind. So that’s exactly what I'd done. I left Matthew and walked away. Forever. 

The feeling was awful, and strange, and not at all what I’d hoped. I paused halfway to the cab and thought I could hear him calling after me over the din of the rain. I couldn’t look back. Wouldn’t. I tightened my grip on my holdall and pushed myself toward the taxi. I could barely register whether the moisture that had gathered on my face was from the rain or the tears. As the beads of water poured down toward my lips, the faintest hint of salt gathered there. Tears.

I threw the holdall into the taxi and closed the door, which locked automatically. Once I was trapped with no way to get out, I looked momentarily at the place that had been our home, but not _my_ home. The front door was closed. There was no Matthew. He’d never called after me. He’d never even come after me. He let me walk out the door and closed it behind me, confirming everything that I had suspected of him from the start of all this. Not that I had wanted him to chase me, but the finality of it all hit me all at once. My shoulders began to heave involuntarily, my chest grew tight, and tears flooded my eyes. 

The cab driver was an older woman and despite my absolute meltdown, I felt safe and relieved in her presence. “I’m so sorry,” I told her through sobs that wracked my entire body. “I’ve...I’ve just left my husband.”

“Oh,” she acknowledged, seeming to understand my plight. Surprisingly, she handed me a handkerchief. 

“I’ve left two. It gets easier with practice,” she told me, her voice soft and sympathetic.

I couldn’t help but laugh lightly before blowing my nose noisily into the handkerchief. “Sorry…” I murmured, apologizing for ruining it.

“S’alright,” the woman said. “Keep it. They’re in here for a reason. Now, where are yeh headed, love?”

I thought for a moment. I had nowhere to go. No home. Here was no longer an option, and neither was Yorkshire, so I settled on the only other place I felt truly comfortable. “Denmark Street, please,” I told her. I knew for a fact that Strike had an old camp bed in the closet in the office. I’d seen him on it when I first started all those years ago. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it’d be something, even if just for tonight while I got my bearings. 

Upon reaching the Twelve Bar Cafe, I removed a wad of notes from my pocket to pay the driver. But she was kind and refused, saying “No worries, love. It wasn’t but a few moments. Just pay it forward, yeh?” I sniffed and nodded, and thanked her for her kindness. That was what the world needed more of - women supporting women regardless of age, race, or circumstance. With a wave, I grabbed my holdall and trudged up to the big black door. Inserting my key in the lock, I slung my bag over my shoulder and climbed the stairs up to the agency. My legs felt like cinderblocks beneath me.

Upon reaching the door marked “C.B. Strike, Private Investigator,” I started to unlock it as I’d done so many times before, but something pulled me back. Memories. A sudden flood of memories of Strike, colliding with him on these very stairs all those years ago. The elation that came with solving cases together, building a business, and a partnership together. The hug we’d shared on the stairs at Swinton Park. The many moments were overwhelming in my current state. 

A realization appeared in my mind and once it was there, I couldn’t shake it. After feeling miserable, lonely, and lost in my marriage to Matthew, I was beaten down. Matthew had essentially broken who I was and had I allowed the marriage to continue, it’s very possible that I would have been broken beyond repair. Yet, two things had kept me going, the agency...and Strike. Though a bit like putting bandages on a bullet wound, every moment I shared with him kept me together for a little while longer. Those interactions, though few and far between, had been just enough to see me through to this very moment. It was the moment where I rejected my destruction and allowed myself to be free. I don’t credit everything to Strike, of course, but I do know that he has been a constant in my life when Matt wasn’t, and that’s not _nothing._

I don’t know what will happen now. I don’t know if I’ll ever have a home here in London. I don’t know where I’ll be staying tomorrow, or next week. But I know I don’t have to be alone. I no longer have to feel the way he made me feel. With tired determination, I pushed my feet to climb the stairs that led to Strike. I was a sodding wet mess with wild hair and wilder eyes, I’m sure, but when I knocked on his door, I felt a familiar sense of relief wash over me, as if I was coming home. He looked me up and down and surprisingly appraised my disheveled appearance. 

“Hi,” he breathed softly. 

I mustered a weak smile, “Hi.”

_Sometimes giving up is the strong thing_

_Sometimes to run is the brave thing_

_Sometimes walking out is the one thing_

_That will find you the right thing._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
